


Leave

by shewearsglasses



Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Dubious Consent, F/M, Implied Sexual Content, Mild Sexual Content, Murder, POV Second Person, Post - Avengers, Serial Killers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-29
Updated: 2014-04-29
Packaged: 2018-01-21 07:40:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1542923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shewearsglasses/pseuds/shewearsglasses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You could leave.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Leave

**Author's Note:**

> So, after seeing Thor I got really into Lokane. I know I can't write this ship, but I'd actually already written this as an original story, and figured I could morph it to fit the pairing I'd become so obsessed with.
> 
> This was originally about the lover of a serial killer. Now, it's the lover of Loki.
> 
> The second person POV is supposed to be Jane Foster.

His eyes are dark embers of a fire slowly burning out. He turns to you, a starving man in need of salvation. A smirk here, a touch there; a breath like ice and fire all rolled up in one. His fingertips glide across your back as you lie against the curve of him, tears tracking wet trails down the tip of your nose. Salty guilt mixes with the all-encompassing fear that you could leave him, and yet you're trapped; stuck here in this purgatory of emotional duress. You love him, you hate yourself for it.

Your hair is wrapped around his fingers, the long, lithe digits pressing closer to your neck. He inhales behind you, and you allow a breathy sob to escape your swollen mouth. "Oh, dear love," he says against your shoulder. His words tickle your skin, the sheets seem to further constrict around your legs, trapping you against him.

He tugs you back, your skin sliding against his in slow, sweaty agony. You swallow a second sob, burying your head in the curve of your elbow as he rolls you over, dances his fingers across the supple skin of your breasts. The warmth that slides down your body is damnable but impossible to stop.

Finally, just as he lowers himself over your helpless body, you give in. Your mouth meets his and for a second it's almost tender, for a brief second, you believe he may be changing. You might be reshaping him like wet clay. Then, his lips slant further over yours and the gentle kindness is gone.

When you wake up, his hands have left dark marks across your body. You stand, examine yourself in the mirror. His fingertips have left a lacy necklace of bruises in their stead.

You hear the shower start, his sigh of ecstasy as, assumedly, the heated water runs down his body. Your eyes flicker in his direction, an almost wanton edge to the brown irises that meet yours in the mirror. Your lips open in a fragile plea, and you finally move away, padding over to retrieve the forgotten articles of your clothing strewn across the room. You could leave.

As you clasp your bra behind you, you watch yourself move. You're crippled by the soreness between your thighs, and stepping far enough to tug your underwear up your long legs seems almost too much. The shower stops just as you pull his white dress shirt over your naked shoulders. Upon exiting the bathroom, nothing but a towel covering him from you, he seems amused. "Ah," he says, voice heavy with lust even long after he's already tired himself out. "I think you have something of mine."

Your gaze snaps down to the shirt, then back up to him as he crosses the room in three languid strides. His fingers lift to pick at the collar of the shirt; you can't stop yourself from following his tongue as it darts in and out of his mouth, licking at the lips he'd so recently pressed to every part of your aching body. His eyes lock with yours, you watch as his gaze drops to your dry lips then back up.

He tears himself away, dropping a pithy kiss to the corner of your mouth that leaves your blood curdling in your veins. Your toes shift, pushing you off the floor and closer to him, but he's already gone.

Muttering something about things to do, he opens the closet. When he reappears from the grand walk-in, he's dressed and ready to leave. He drops a kiss to your temple once more, before grabbing his bag and running out the door.

As soon as you hear the door close behind him, you collapse to the ground, body wracked with sobs. You allow the breath to leave your lungs, wheezing and drowning in the terror of it all. He'll be back soon, and who knows when you'll be next? You could leave.

He says he needs you, he whispers it against your collarbone as he nips his way down to your chest. Then, the faces appear on the nightly news and you know the reason scarlet stained each and every lovely face. The memorials play over and over like a broken record. There was such hope behind their eyes: blue, brown, green, all so young and so promising. And they all ended up the same, covered in red, blue and black. Their eyes are shut and so are the caskets. Never to be opened again.

And yet you can't help yourself. Every night when he comes home, you're there. Lips bruising against his as he stumbles into you, graceful legs turned clumsy at the mere brush of your fingers against his cheek. He inhales you, grabs at your waist. He lifts you into the air. You lock your legs around his waist and ride out the pain with pleasure.

Blinking away the last of your tears, you rise on wobbly legs. Your slippers slide onto your feet, and you arrive in the kitchen without really knowing how you got there. The pot of coffee is hard to hold, your hands are shivering like frail butterflies. As soon as the bitter liquid fills your simple, white mug, you deposit yourself on the couch and try to avoid any news channels.

You can practically hear their screams echo through your apartment even from this distance. You wonder briefly where he goes, where he washes the blood from his fingertips, from his smile. Then, you shake yourself awake.

Some lazy new cartoon scrolls across the screen, an advertisement in the corner about a marathon the following weekend. You flip channels, and although you try to ignore the news broadcasts, your fingers move of their own accord. The names flash before your eyes. It's like a horror story, and you're the foolish young girl at the beginning who goes off alone to investigate the mysterious noise. You're the one found dead ten years later, victim to pitying glances at the funeral. "She was so young, so naïve." "She never saw it coming." "Poor dear thought he was just a handsome young doctor." You could leave.

But you know, oh, you know. You recognize the eyes on the police sketches. The only thing anyone remembers with detail, and the only ever-remaining part of the mask he wears. They're dark, deep, and intense. You find yourself lost in them daily, wondering how eyes as dangerously beautiful as these could ever cause harm. But, then sandy hair, rosy cheeks and a name brightens the screen and you wonder no more. The bodies still count up, even months after New York.

There's a click at the door as a key slides into the lock and you stumble awake, not quite realizing you'd ever been asleep. You flash-step to the TV, turning the power off before he can even glance at the face he probably won't even recognize. He's smirking at you when you swallow your nerves and meet him in the hallway.

As he kisses you, lips taking more than you'd ever admit to giving, you know you'll stay. You could never leave.


End file.
